36. Morheim
Chapter 36
Morheim
WONDER BOY
Summerlands, Faerie, 100 years ago
“ O h.” Beth rests her head on the wall at her back, the midday sun filtering through her bedroom window. “We’re going to be late,” she scolds half-heartedly, tugging on my hair.
I push aside her underwear and drag my fingers across her drenched folds, happy to find her wet and wanton. “It’s just a ball game.”
A hushed breath escapes her. “But you’re playing.”
“I’d rather do this.”
I massage her sweet core until her hips buck, then sink two fingers inside, dragging in and out of her a few times, teasing her just the way she likes it. I crave the sounds she makes when she’s right there on the edge and swallow them with a kiss, our foreheads resting against one another as I drink in the sight of her.
Her nails sink into my shoulder blade. “More. Please.”
I increase the pressure but keep the same rhythm, eager to see her come apart slowly and completely. I take my time, making her mad for that next, deep stroke. Her back arches, the gush of her pleasure dripping along my fingers as she screams, and I smother her loudest cries with my free hand.
When she’s done shuddering in my arms, I lick her arousal off my fingers and pull her in for a bruising kiss. “Meet me in the gardens afterwards. To celebrate my victory.”
“And what if you lose?” she teases with a false grimace of worry, linking her arms around my neck, preventing me from pulling away.
I grin from ear to ear. “Don’t you have faith in your man, Songbird? I wouldn’t let a bunch of weak-minded darklings beat me.”
“I’m a darkling,” she muses, pressing her hand to my erection.
I groan at the pressure and stop moving, unable to walk away.
She palms me back and forth over the fabric, destroying my chances to calm down, before slipping her small hand inside my trousers and rubbing the wet tip with her thumb.
“Ah, flaming hells.”
“If I kept you here, the game would be forfeit, would it not?”
I close my eyes, her hard strokes driving me wild. “Don’t stop.”
She falls to her knees in front of me, her long black braid tucked at her back, her hooded eyes still thick with pleasure. “I want you in my mouth, now .”
It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I wrap my hand in her braid and control the pace, her talented mouth wreaking havoc on my body as she traces the shape of my tattoo.
“That’s cheating,” I groan, my cock throbbing so hard, I’m ready to come balls deep inside her beautiful mouth, her tongue doing wicked, wicked things to the tip.
From the way she uses both hands to drive me wild, her caresses urgent and delicious, I figure she doesn’t really mean to disqualify me from the match.
She bobs her head up and down, and I can’t take it anymore, undone like a horny virgin every damn time she uses her mouth. I empty myself at the back of her throat, and she swallows it all, the lustful look on her face morphing into a naughty grin.
I help her to her feet and peck her lips. “I love you. Please meet me at the cabin after the match.”
“Love you too, but hurry up, or there won’t be a game to win.”
I reluctantly tear myself away and climb through her window. My heart tightens as I exit the gardens, smoothing down my hair. Out there on the field, I’ll have to slip back into my prince mask and pretend Beth is merely my sister’s best friend. She won’t cheer for me, and I won’t kiss her at the end of the match.
Because, no matter how many mind-blowing orgasms and warm nights we share together, she’s not mine. Not yet. But I swat the unwanted twinge of fear away. I have to give her time to process this, and reassure her at every turn that I’m not going to change my mind.
After a while, she’ll see that breaking off her engagement is the first step to the rest of our lives together. Besides, I can’t complain… sneaking around can be tremendous fun.
“You’re late, boo,” Ezra greets me on the field, his lips pressed into a grim line.
“I know.”
“We almost had to forfeit.” He tosses me a matching white vest, and I slip it over my head before grabbing the ball from the ground.
“I’m here now.”
Sean and the other members of the team glower at me for my tardiness, but I’m too happy to care.
Ezra raises an eyebrow. “Plenty of people noticed Beth’s absence, too. You two will get caught soon if you’re not more careful.”
“Let’s play ball, eh? You can lecture me later.” I tap his breastbone with the ball to nudge him off.
Ezra rolls his eyes. “I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
The match starts, and adrenaline surges through me with the claps and cheers of the villagers and students in the crowd filling the bleachers. Soon, I spot Beth among them, sitting right beside Willow, and I fight the urge to wave at her.
We’re almost at halftime, the darklings trailing behind by three points, when the sky darkens in a very sudden and unexpected manner.
I slow to a jog and angle my gaze upward, but the sun hasn't been obscured by storm clouds. Instead, a thick, shapeless shadow blocks its light. The phenomenon moves at the edges, shimmering like a mirage, and sends a bout of dizziness through my blood.
“Flaming hell, what is that?” Ezra shouts over the gasps and clamor of the other players. “Morheim isn’t supposed to start for another week.”
Morheim, when it arrives, keeps the sun from rising in our sky for up to ten days and allows nightmares to prowl our lands, but it’s never come early before.
Damian freezes, and the ball topples from his hands. “By Morpheus… It’s a flock of crows.”
I squint at the strange shadow once more, and sure enough, as the shifting darkness sharpens into focus, I can make out the shapes of black wings and yellow eyes. Hundreds—no, thousands—of crows form a dense wall of sleek feathers and long beaks, heading straight toward us.
“Under the trees. Now!” Ezra commands.
A chorus of panicked cries rise from the spectators, who quickly abandon the bleachers, rushing for the cover of the trees. The Prince of Light leaves my side, joining the frantic retreat.
I search for Beth in the chaos and make a beeline for her. The ground is overrun with pine needles, and long shadows stretch beneath the trees as the caws and kraas of the crows grow louder and louder.
Everyone takes refuge under the nearest canopy of trees—everyone but Damian.
The Shadow Lord stands alone in the middle of the field.
“What is he doing?” Zeke grunts, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Willow’s eyes glaze over, and she speaks in the eerie, far-off tone she uses whenever she has a premonition. “Four crows nest on top of the Shadow tree. They’ll be crowned before the next dawn.”
The living cloud of birds picks up speed as they dive, plunging directly at him, but Damian doesn’t raise a hand to protect himself—he doesn’t move an inch, only grinning at the incoming flock.
Under our awestruck stares, the crows plummet to their deaths around him in a terrifying blur, their frail necks snapping from the force of the impact. Despite the violence of the blows, Damian himself only takes one direct hit, a ripple of magic slicing through the air as the very last crow crashes into the side of his head.
Blood drips down the side of his face, and I’m the first to rush to him, slowly processing what just happened. “Blessed Flame. You’re?—”
Damian touches his bloody neck, and I notice the swirl of circles and lines now adorning the back of his ear, black as night.
“The Mark of the Gods,” Ezra breathes, his voice barely a whisper next to me.
“The Shadow King is dead.” I beat my chest with a closed fist, the panicked glares of the villagers and students prompting me to restore order. “Morpheus has made his will known. Damian Sombra has been called to rule.”
“The gods have spoken,” Ezra says quickly, and the others follow.
“The gods have spoken.”
“The gods have spoken.”
Damian blinks, as though waking from a long, heavy sleep. He clenches and unclenches his fists and meets Zeke’s horrified glare head on.
I clear my throat and address the Shadow Prince in a muted tone. “My condolences, Zeke. Your father was a fine king.”
Despite all our differences, this is a momentous occasion, and I will not dishonor the gods—or my mother. As the highest-ranking impartial royal present, it’s my duty to lead by example.
The only thing worse than learning of your father’s death in front of the entire school is discovering, at the very same moment, that you’re not destined to take his place on the throne. It must sting beyond belief, a humiliation that cuts deeper than any blade.
“Yes. Sorrows. Prayers,” Ezra snips, feral.
I throw him a warning glare, but Zeke ignores us both.
His focus is locked entirely on Damian as he barrels closer, fists clenched at his sides. “I should kill you here and now.”
“I worked my whole life for this. My sympathies for your father, but you’d make a pitiful king,” Damian replies with unshakable poise, his calm delivery raising goosebumps on my arms.
I shudder as his eyes swirl with liquid gold, shadows twisting over his shoulders and arms, alive with the power imbued by the Mark of the Gods. It’s as though Morpheus himself is lending Damian his cloak of night ahead of his coronation, the God’s choice clear and undeniable.
His time to rule has come far sooner than any of us anticipated, and while he’s outshined me yet again, I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything in the worlds. Not if it meant living a life of duty so young.
“I challenge you!” Zeke roars, shoving Damian hard enough to send him stumbling backward. But the Crow regains his footing quickly, his dark eyes narrowing in warning.
“Zeke, take a minute—” I begin, my voice low but urgent.
The Shadow Prince slices his arms through the air, puffing out his chest with reckless bravado. “I won’t let you steal my crown! I challenge you, Damian Sombra, and in ten days, you’ll be dead.”
His words ring out, sharp and deliberate, the official challenge crackling with magic that lingers in the air like an aftertaste of smoke and steel. Every witness tenses, the weight of the ancient ritual settling over us, as the reality of what Zeke has set in motion becomes impossible to ignore.
Beth gasps, my Songbird standing barely a few feet away. Her ocean-blue eyes are wide, and frost glazes her cheeks, a chilling testament to the shock coursing through her veins. Every instinct in me screams to comfort her, to brush away the ice and pull her close, but I can’t. Not here. Not with everyone watching. The secrecy of our relationship chains me in place, forcing me to do nothing when all I want is to warm her with my touch.
We exchange a fleeting glance, a silent understanding passing between us. The students stand more rigid and silent than usual, their posturing and bravado stripped away by what they’ve just witnessed. We play games, we taunt, we posture—but this? What Zeke has done will have egregious consequences.
In ten days, the new Shadow King will be crowned, with either Damian or Zeke poised to claim the throne. And if the past is any indication, as the High Fae of the Shadowlands provinces cheer for their new king, the corpse of the loser will be lowered six feet under.